Archive for the ‘Heathrow’ Tag

Jackie’s flight was soon but there wasn’t any reason for her to rush through security so we stopped for some fortification at the Darwin. The pub was formerly (even recently) the Three Bells — an homage to Terminal Three — so Darwin must refer to the bulk of the passengers’ steadfast refusal to evolve.

The Bloody Mary was £7.50 (reasonable even outside the airport for the generous load of booze) and the pint another 5½ quid. The atmosphere of an airport bar perfectly complimented the depressing week and we nursed our refills before saying our farewells at the greater-than-100mL-bottle depository.

Jackie returned to the UK Thursday morning after 3 weeks setting her mom up in an assisted-living apartment and closing down the house for sale. A day or two is always a nice change, but more than that and the longing for one another’s company intensifies minute-by-minute.

But, the aeroplane only travels as fast as it travels so I spent the morning ahead of her arrival ticking off Piccadilly Line segments on the TfL Run Project.

This is not as easy as the others and I had to fudge the rules a little. Hounslow Central, Hounslow West, and Hatton Cross are straightforward stations to spot. But, there is no pedestrian access to the Tube stop for Terminals 1, 2, and 3. So, the photo on this leg of the journey is just aimed toward T3 at some point between Hatton Cross and T4:

Hounslow Central

Hounslow West

Hatton Cross

Towards Terminals 1, 2, and 3 (no pedestrian access)

Ironically, the driver of this car would have been allowed to reach T1/2/3 only a few moments before this parking mishap:

Terminal 4 was likewise difficult to access as there are no pedestrian paths the last portion of the journey. I ran past some coppers sitting in a car along the way and they didn’t try to redirect me, so I took it to mean I was okie-dokie for this segment.

Terminal 4

On the Bath Road leg of the journey (I didn’t feel the need to re-shoot Hatton Cross since T4 has a direct connection to T1/2/3), I just picked up the nearest-to-the-entrance road sign for the Tube Stop check-off:

Nice for an airport bar and a lot cheaper than the fucking Castle from last night, the Three Bells (note the pun name) in Terminal Three at Heathrow marked the official start of the first Thanksgiving I’ve spent alone since my first one away from home in 1978.

The Doom Bar was good, too, the music included some Springsteen and Paul Simon, and the couch I eventually moved over to was comfy and there was a copy of the Guardian there with unmolested puzzles in it. Result!

Earlier, at the King William, a short guy at the bar recommended the White Horse with the warning that I should watch my head as I entered. This was funny since he was about 4 feet tall; he knew what he was talking about, though, and anyone over 5 feet tall should take note.

While my Doom Bar was being pulled, I mentioned that a guy at the KW had endorsed the place. “The landlord?” asked the landlord, here. “Yes, but a short guy at the bar, first. The landlord’s skills with a map would have me climbing the fence into and back out of the airport.” He nodded his agreement before charging an outrageous amount for the pint: an advantage of having your whole village flattened, soon, is you don’t have to depend on repeat business. Oh…they open at 9 am.

It is truly a shame, though, that such a grand example of a 16th century ale house is going to make way for an expansion of an airport that really can’t handle the load it already has. It should be built around…maybe with a shuttle stop along the way to Terminal 5.

Positioning the map so the pub was just in front of me, I moved my cider across the table to a point about arm’s length away, lifted it slightly saying, “this is Uxbridge;” then, taking a salt shaker and putting it a little to the right I added, “and that is Ruislip.”

The landlady was standing in the doorway of the Five Bells talking with a teenager further inside; I opened the door and we startled one another then both moved toward the bar. “What’ll you have?” she asked and I asked for a Foster’s then added, “but that looks pretty good, too,” nodding toward the hot chocolate she had set on the end of the bar.

Taking immediate offense, she tensed up and demanded, “WHAT did you say?” I realised the beverage was in a direct line of sight between me and the girl.

“The cocoa. That and a shot of brandy would be grand, but I’ll just have the beer for now.”

Down the hallway to the larger, back bar I spotted these Wanted For Murder posters that were interesting on several levels. First, £20K would be a nice payday. Second, this suburban pub seems to need posters in English, Dutch, and Arabic. Third, the incident occurred on Field End Road about a mile from my house. Small world.

Quiet bar with a giant tele in it showing putrid daytime shows. The one on when I got there was “Judge Rinder” which is kind of like “Judge Judy” except the magistrate is young, British, and flaming. The case: a guy used a dating app and met a girl who turned out to be a prostitute; there were some unresolved financial issues. I didn’t wait around to see how Judgey-Wudgey sorted this.